The Werg

There are runes of sundry tales amongst the Saxons that conjure indelible images of supernatural beings who inhabit the realm of mortals. The tale that you shall now read is about a foul creature that once terrified the minds of children and women throughout the Saxon villages. It was said that this creature was once a mortal man, who had forsaken his soul for the covetous grasp of power, and was thus condemned to exist as a monstrosity. Whilom, his name was Edwig, but he would thenceforth be known as the Werg.

From one village to another, its name was deeply embedded in the apprehensions of the Saxons. Wherever it passed, its engrossing terror would spread and be immortalised in the wrath that it wielded. The kinsmen remembered it for its cruelty and its devouring hunger for its adversaries. Within weeks of its emergence, the consequential episodes of terror reached the forum of the Council of Eight.

The harrowing foe the Saxons now faced was unlike any they had previously met on the battlefield. Why was it so dreaded? Because it was the vile embodiment of an apparent evil, displaying no ruth. The Saxons, who had once frolicked in the harmonies of music and bliss, were now profoundly troubled by the encroaching menace of the Werg’s armies. The persistent slaughter and destruction of Saxon villages had roused the Council of Eight to respond to this implacable threat.

The dwarves and the elves had made a sacred pact with the Saxons, vowing to aid in their defence, as the Saxons had sworn allegiance to them through this honourable alliance. Several messengers were dispatched to warn the Werg that the Saxons would not yield control of their lands. None returned—save one. He told the Council of Eight of the terrible horrors he had witnessed.

He returned with the severed heads of fellow Saxons, packed in a large silver chest filled with dried blood and putrid flesh. The lands of the elves and dwarves had also been plundered, and both peoples were committed to ridding themselves of the Werg and his horde of maniacal assassins.

They had suffered tremendously, and their territories were now in extreme danger of total obliteration unless they halted the Werg’s madness. The origins of its power remained a lingering mystery. None knew its veritable lineage, save that when it was human, it was said to be the bastard son of a Viking king and an unnamed Saxon woman.

A brutal curse had befallen the family and Edwig himself, condemning him to the hideous guise of a wretched beast. Tempted by greed, he forsook his mortal soul and became the ferocious Werg. This tale had been spread by soothsayers in times past, who had foretold the creature’s arrival.

Garwig, a wizened man in visage but sharp of mind, had forewarned of the nightmarish swevening to come. Beneath the morning rays of the sun, the Council of Eight gathered to choose, from amongst their proven warriors, one who could defeat the invincible Werg and banish its sinister influence from their native lands.

The athelings offered lands and riches to any soul audacious enough to slay the beast. The stout-hearted hero they chose was a man named Oswin, who took a solemn oath not to return until the Werg was slain. He was the first-born son of a highborn man and had fought in many battles across the immemorial valleys where warriors were forged not into atheldom, but the douth of manhood.

The arduous task imposed upon the young warrior would lead him into unknown and undiscovered territories beyond the dry and rigid Mountains of Death. For centuries, that region had lain on the outskirts, deemed inhospitable and forbidden to Saxons. None dared defy the portentous warnings of the sagacious elders.

That was until they were faced with the horrors of enslavement and persecution by the Werg. Oswin never once doubted his ability to battle the unyielding threat of the beast, whose legions of daemons had overwhelmed the Saxons since the earliest sanguineous battles upon the Valleys of Death.

Trained from a young age, Oswin had become a fierce warrior. Along with eighty men, he departed the confines of his homeland to seek out the Werg’s secret lair. Oswin had seen twenty-five moons and suns beyond the Yuletide. His hair was chestnut brown and long, his constitution chiselled from natural brawn, and his hazel eyes teeming with confidence. He held the hilt of his sword with conviction, his strength unwavering.

In truth, few had seen the Werg and lived to speak of it. What was known of the creature was its stealth—it struck amain, when least expected, and emerged from the thester shadows like a wolf in search of blood amidst blustery gusts of fury. The Werg’s grure knew no bounds, so long as the Saxons had yet to overcome its gruesome conquest.

Henceforth, they were in constant battle with the evil that reigned and the torment it brought upon those who resisted. The Saxons knew their foe was brath and merciless in its punishments.

Their unremitting valour would be tested time and again, and few would return to see their homes and families anew. Time alone would bear witness to the savage nature of their adversary and record the horrors of the battles against the Werg’s relentless forces.

The men relied on their swords and shields, but it was the bravery of Oswin that would drive them forward. He had been granted unique weaponry by the Council of Eight: a sharp sword, a steel shield, a flexible bow, and two piercing arrows.

Upon that portentous day, the Saxons departed their lands to find and destroy the insidious creature. They joined forces with the dwarves and elves, who had been forewarned by the goddess Ingrei Frea of the Werg’s intent to conquer their lands as well.

They wended their way for days and nights, through the filthy waters of the swales and the tall grasses of the dales. Along the way, they beheld the absolute destruction of their villages, the remnants of ruin left behind as dire warnings to others.

The throats of women and children were slit. It was said that the Werg drank the blood of his victims from an alabaster skull upon his throne. Truly, his vengeance would not cease with mere destruction—the creature sought complete conquest over his relinquished foes.

The Werg demanded Saxon submission. It was in one of the open dales that Oswin’s forces met the Werg’s legions in battle. A thick mist of clouds formed into spectral wraiths, who attacked with great intensity. From afar, the Werg watched, malevolence gleaming in his large alabaster eyes.

Countless Saxons, dwarves, and elves fell in battle. The Saxons invoked the god Thunor, and with his divine aid, they began to turn the tide. Thunor’s breath swept the wraiths into a river and froze the waters with hardened ice, trapping the spirits beneath. Thus, the wicked wraiths were made prisoners of their inescapable fate.

This intrusion enraged the Werg. He summoned the towering thurses—giants under his command. A loud, thunderous sound shook the ground as the twain thurses approached. With their colossal feet, they crushed many helpless bodies as the survivors scattered to the knolls in fear.

When all seemed lost, Thunor intervened once more. With his mighty hammer, he cracked open the valley floor like a great earthquake, casting the giants into a deep chasm. They were devoured by the earth.

The Werg, now consumed with fury, hurled a blazing ball of fire upon the Saxons and their allies. Many perished, their burnt shields marking their end. In defeat, the Werg retreated to his castle.

Those who survived the onslaught were left weakened by the strife of battle. The Saxons’ mouths begged for water, their stomachs begged for food, and their legs begged for rest.

It was a long and wearisome journey they were forced to endure on foot thereafter. The griffins who had accompanied Oswin were compelled to depart during the battle, for they were attacked by the Werg and sought refuge in the mountains until the battle had concluded.

The weather had not treated the men and others well. It had delayed their advance. The rain had soaked the garments beneath the byrnies of the Saxons, and their depleted supplies caused some of the men to grow weaker in their fortitude.

They had not calculated the distance and time required for their mission, but upon reaching their destination, they would be left utterly in awe of what they beheld. Twilight had arrived with a daunting omen, bringing with it the dimming light of death. Dreary days, marred by uncertainty along the journey, were swiftly eclipsed by the haunting realisation of the bleak and barren lair of the Werg.

There before their astonished eyes stood the lofty stronghold of the beast, as the echoes of thunder resounded and refulgent flashes of lightning were seen across the mountain range. An ominous shade of darkness began to encompass the tall castle upon the steep cliff, beneath the hovering clouds and mist.

The men of the Saxons were prepared to give their lives in the midst of battle, but this was not a battle many of them had ever envisioned as their honourable end. For the Werg was no ordinary enemy to be easily defeated or subdued. Thus, there was a great measure of caution in their approach. The caliginous castle of the creature intimidated them with a distressing impression. The pervasive breath of death was felt through the passage of the eerie gateway.

Upon the tops of the towers of imposition stood ghastly gargoyles, observing the Saxons as they drew near. The impregnable walls of the sable castle were wrought from solid masonry. The men beheld the fierce gargoyles, yet the beasts did not attack at once. They remained vigilant, under the command of their dark lord. The Saxons could not have known that the Werg had foreseen their arrival. His unsightly image would be terrifying.

Rather than launching an assault, the Werg permitted them to enter and seek his lurking presence. He remained concealed within his stronghold. As the men passed through the gateway and stood before the heavy front door made of solid steel, it slowly opened wide. It was a welcome that was both foreboding and unsettling in nature.

A certain trepidation stirred within some of the men, who sensed the imminent peril awaiting them. Reluctance was a natural response, yet it was not enough to make them desist in their task of destroying the Werg. There was no turning back.

Oswin instructed some of his men to remain behind with the elves and dwarves, in the event that they did not return alive from the castle. He and the others entered cautiously, prepared to confront whatever lingered in the suffocating shadows ahead. They were guided only by the flickering light of the torches hanging upon the walls of the narrow corridors.

A dreadful silence pervaded the creepy castle, save for the whistling wind from outside. Countless halls lay abandoned, and in every place they passed or entered, there was no sign of the Werg. It was difficult to discern where the fiend might be concealed at any given moment.

The emptiness of the castle was a cunning deception employed by the Werg. None of his enemies who had entered his lair had ever emerged as survivors of its nightmarish terror. He ruled with imperious dominance. Any who dared betray him would suffer immediate chastisement. His unmerciful reputation had been earned through the irrefutable course of his cruel actions.

Verily, the question for the Saxons remained—who was the Werg, in essence? What was known of his character were his illimitable power and irrepressible menace. His doomed enemies dwindled in number and were reduced to fading memories.

His obedient armies grew and spread throughout the Saxon lands and into the territories of other tribes. Within a month’s span, half the Saxon realms had been either destroyed or conquered. At length, the warriors reached a hall that held a mysterious pit. There they halted, curiosity compelling them to await whatever was to transpire.

As they waited, from the depths of the pit rose a throng of daemons, who immediately launched an assault without warning. The Saxons resisted with their swords and shields, but were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer multitude of the daemons.

Perceiving the danger, Oswin commanded his men to retreat, which they did. Those who survived fled into another adjoining hall. The heavy door behind them closed, trapping them within the castle, at the mercy of whatever fate awaited.

With no succour to be had, the Saxons were left alone to fend off the menacing daemons. Outside the castle, those who had remained—together with the elves and dwarves—were then assailed by a host of grisly gargoyles descending from the lofty towers.

The gargoyles tore through the byrnies of the Saxons with their sharp claws, slaying several of them instantly. The defenders were cornered as they fought bravely against their winged foes.

The elves and dwarves were the least prepared for the gargoyle assault. They suffered the brunt of the attack, and many of their kindred perished in the struggle. Yet from beyond the horizon of the stronghold, a flight of white griffins, sent by Ingrei Frea, appeared to defend the Saxons and their allies. The griffins attacked the unrestrained gargoyles, allowing the survivors to flee and take shelter in a nearby cave, guarded by the goddess’s influence.

The battles were fierce and bloody—raging both outside and within the castle. Oswin and his remaining warriors were huddled behind a wall, their swords drawn. For some reason unbeknownst to them, the daemons from the pit did not pursue them into this hall.

Oswin’s instincts told him that the Werg was near and had ordered the daemons to desist. The silence of the castle returned, broken only by the whistling wind from without. The torches upon the walls burned brighter, while the draught grew colder.

Despite the castle’s ominous air, Oswin knew he must slay the Werg or face the dreadful consequences—enslavement of his people and the fall of the Saxon kingdoms. He would not allow such a fate.

Suddenly, a poisonous mist entered the hall, assailing the lungs of the men. Some fell to the ground; others desperately tried to avoid its inescapable clutch. A few survived by covering their faces with torn pieces of their garments.

They rushed from hall to hall until they reached the chamber where the Werg awaited. At first, he appeared as a man seated upon a golden throne—but then transformed before their eyes. Was this illusion meant to deceive?

His blue eyes turned alabaster, his brown hair became shaggy and onyx, and his body shifted into the hideous disfigurement that was the Werg. The creature towered over seven feet tall, with massive jaws and protruding claws.

Oswin knew he faced a monstrous evil that would demand all his strength and courage to overcome. The Werg then leapt from his throne and attacked with the swiftness of a lightning bolt, piercing the byrnies of the Saxons before they could even raise their blades.

They could not match the speed and astuteness of the Werg. It would slice through the flesh of the men and savour it with its crushing teeth and long tongue.

Their dilemma had doubled. On the one hand, they could not overpower the Werg; on the other, they were unable to escape its vindictive wrath.

It was then that Oswin drew several arrows from his side and readied his bow. He loosed them into the body of the Werg, but the creature would not die. Instead, the arrows merely enraged it further, fuelling its determination to execute the remaining Saxons. One by one, the other Saxon warriors fell to agonising deaths. By the magic of Ingrei Frea, the front door of the castle was opened.

This allowed Oswin and a few other men to flee, whilst the Werg butchered the rest, who perished under its terrible slaughter. The elves and the dwarves entered with the Saxons. They had sworn allegiance to Oswin. After the Werg’s murderous spree, it took note of the others who had entered—especially Ingrei Frea.

The goddess had dared to enter the domain of the Werg unannounced. It was a confrontation between two formidable entities. For a moment, the Werg did nothing but stare, standing tall upon its hind legs. Then it rapidly vanished into the mist that had formed before its abrupt departure.

From the reign of fear returned the dauntless daemons of the Werg. A wild horde emerged from the darkness to assault the Saxons and their allies. With her magical staff, Ingrei Frea stirred the rousing winds into a sudden whirlpool that sucked in the daemons and choked them to death.

Soon after, giant black ravens descended from beyond the hills to attack the Saxons, elves, and dwarves. This caused the goddess to lose her staff, and as she attempted to retrieve it, she was struck and hurled over the cliff, landing below in the mouth of the river’s darkness.

Because of the misty clouds hovering above, Oswin could not see her image where she had supposedly fallen. He and the other survivors of the sable ravens' onslaught hid within the cave where others had once taken refuge. But this did not dissuade the Werg.

It sent forth its loyal legions of wights into the cave to destroy the last of their enemies. Swiftly they entered. When it seemed that Oswin and the others still standing were doomed to their grim fate, the thunderbolt of Thunor was heard—he appeared and saved them.

With his mighty hammer, he caused a great boulder to seal the cave, trapping the wights inside indefinitely. From the tower of his castle, the wicked Werg sent a command for his large ebony ravens and dreaded gargoyles to assault Oswin’s forces.

But Thunor blew his mighty breath, sending the ravens plummeting down the long cliff into the river below. Griffins returned to finish off the gargoyles. Yet the battle had not been declared a supreme victory. A final challenge awaited them—one that came in the form of the Werg itself.

The last true vestige of the Werg’s power was embodied in the flaming dragon, its devoted servant. The Werg summoned it. From afar, the emerald dragon was seen gliding through the thick clouds, reaching the mountaintop where the stronghold stood.

Thunor instructed Oswin, the dwarves, and the elves to seek refuge inside the castle. He did not believe the Werg would have the dragon destroy its own lair. Thunor would face the dragon in a fierce battle. The moment the beast saw him, it attacked.

First came a blazing fireball, then a swift lash of its pointed tail—but the mighty god withstood the onslaught with his shield. Thunor struck the dragon’s face and tail with his potent hammer. Back and forth the strife raged, until Thunor smote its scarlet, beady eyes, blinding it momentarily. Then, with immense force, he tore apart the blazing dragon’s mouth, bringing about its demise.

Henceforth, the once-indomitable armies of the Werg had all been defeated. The Werg now stood alone at the tower, defiant and desperate. Its madness brought on its downfall. Sensing its imminent defeat, the Werg swooped down from the tower toward Oswin, who stood boldly at the castle gate.

Tension mounted—for it would be a perilous duel to the death between Oswin and the Werg. Their difference in stature was stark. The Werg was massive compared to Oswin, who, though tall for a Saxon, stood small in comparison.

The Werg uttered words that echoed hauntingly in a deep voice:

'Today is your day to die, Saxon!'

There was fire in its eyes. But Oswin, resolute in his bravery, was undeterred. He replied, 'Today is not my day to die!'

Though he bore weapons, Oswin was clearly at a disadvantage. No weapon he carried could truly kill his ferocious foe—or so he believed.

The Werg taunted and mocked his valour. The dwarves and elves were helpless to aid him.

Thunor watched from afar. There was nothing he could do. This was Oswin’s trial alone. He had been chosen by the Council of Eight to destroy the Werg. Failure was not an option.

Oswin bore a mighty sword and shield—unbeknownst to him, these were magical in nature. The Council of Eight, who had given him the weapons, had not revealed their true power.

Oswin would discover this when the Werg charged at him like a roaring tempest. But Oswin swung his sword with great might and knocked the beast to the ground.

The Werg tried again—only to be thrown down once more. Furious, the Werg could not bear to be shamed. No man had ever struck it down, and it would not allow Oswin to be the first to claim such a victory.

The Werg believed Oswin’s weakness lay in his loyalty to his companions—the dwarves, the elves, and the Saxons. It threatened to kill them.

For the first time, Oswin felt helpless and uncertain. Though he had halted the Werg’s conquest thus far, his strength was not enough.

Hatred burned in the Werg’s inflamed eyes. It would not let Oswin leave alive. The remaining daemons brought forth the hostages—the surviving Saxons, dwarves, and elves—before the Werg.

As the desperate beast prepared to slay them, Ingrei Frea rose from the mist at the bottom of the cliff. She had not perished—she was a goddess. She told Oswin of a peculiar magical arrow he had unknowingly carried, gifted by the Council of Eight.

As the beast lunged at the hostages, Oswin nocked the magical arrow, aimed his bow, and loosed it. The arrow pierced the Werg’s heart. The beast fell, never to rise again. Its heart ceased to beat. The Werg’s horror was ended.

Oswin ensured the terror that had plagued the Saxon thorps was vanquished. The beast’s stronghold crumbled and tumbled into the depths of the cliff. With the Werg’s death, the others rejoiced, crying out Oswin’s name.

He had emerged victorious. His name would be immortalised in Saxon runes and tales. Upon his return, Oswin recounted all that had transpired—the journey, the bitter battles, and the sacrifices made.

The battlefield lay silent beneath a gray, heavy sky. The ground was churned and scarred, littered with broken weapons, shattered shields, and the bodies of those who had fought so fiercely. Fallen Saxons, elves, and dwarves lay intertwined, their faces frozen in expressions of pain, defiance, or final peace. Blood soaked the earth, pooling dark and glistening where the rain had yet to wash it away.

The castle stood in ruin. Its once proud walls shattered by the relentless onslaught. Tower fragments leaned precariously, casting long shadows over the desolation. The great gate, once a symbol of strength and safety, hung ajar, splintered and bloodied. From the highest tower, the eerie stillness was broken only by the distant caw of black ravens circling the darkening sky.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke, burnt wood, and the iron tang of blood. Scattered among the debris were remnants of the daemons and wights—hulking, twisted forms, now lifeless and broken, their unnatural glow extinguished. The eerie silence was a testament to the battle’s end, but also a heavy reminder of the lives extinguished.

Amongst the wreckage, a single obsidian-tipped arrow lay half-buried in the dirt, its golden fletching dulled but intact. It gleamed faintly, a silent witness to the turning point that had shattered the Werg’s reign. Nearby, a battered shield bore the faint symbol of the Council of Eight, dulled by blood and dust, but still defiant in the face of ruin.

The river below ran dark and sluggish, swollen with recent storms, its surface mottled with fallen leaves and the occasional glint of discarded weapons. Where the goddess Ingrei Frea had fallen, the water flowed gently, as if mourning the loss of her grace. A faint whisper of wind stirred the valley, carrying with it the scent of pine and distant thunder—the storm god’s lingering presence.

Scattered griffin feathers, white and gold, floated lazily in the breeze near the riverbank. The great creatures had soared high above, battling the gargoyles and dragons in the skies. Now, their wings rested in quiet repose, the fierce clamor replaced by the stillness of victory.

The survivors moved slowly amongst the fallen—dwarves with weary eyes, elves with bowed heads, Saxons clutching battered swords. There was no celebration, only a solemn acceptance. Their faces were etched with grief and exhaustion, the heavy cost of their triumph written in every step. They gathered the dead, creating small cairns of stone and wood, marking the graves where honor would rest.

In the fading light, the castle’s throne room lay exposed to the sky, its roof gone, walls blackened and cracked. The seat once claimed by the Werg now stood empty, a hollow monument to a vanquished darkness. Tendrils of mist coiled in the corners, and faint echoes of the past battles seemed to linger in the air—ghostly reminders of the terror that had gripped the land.

Far above, the first stars pierced the twilight, distant and cold. They bore silent witness to the cost of war, to the courage of those who stood firm against despair. The wind whispered through the broken battlements, carrying a fragile hope—that from this destruction, life would one day bloom anew.

A soft drizzle began to fall as dawn broke behind the shattered hills, casting the battlefield in a pale, pewter light. The rain did not cleanse so much as settle into the soil, as if nature itself were trying to bury the memory of what had occurred. Pools of water formed in the hollows of helmets and in the deep hoof-prints where cavalry had charged. The grass was flattened and torn, stained brown and crimson, and the air carried the mingled scent of ash, damp earth, and blood that no wind could quite carry away.

The remnants of war lay like discarded relics across the plain. A snapped war-banner, its fabric soaked and limp, fluttered weakly against a splintered lance. A broken horn, once a call to arms, now sat crooked in the mud, cracked open like a ribcage. Here and there, hands had emerged to stack swords in ritual piles or to lay stones gently over the fallen. The elves, silent and graceful even in grief, moved like shadows among the ruins, brushing leaves from the faces of their dead and placing silver tokens over their eyes. The dwarves, stubborn in mourning, worked without pause to erect cairns from the rubble, each stone laid with a care that defied their calloused hands.

Beyond the fields, the great forest stood mute and watching, its trees blackened at the edges from the fires that had raged during the final siege. Once verdant and unbroken, the wood now bore gashes where siege engines had torn their path. Birds had fallen silent. No animal stirred. The silence stretched thin and strange, as though the land itself recoiled from what had transpired.

In the highland distance, the river wound through the valley like a silver thread. Where once it had flowed clear and bright, it now ran murky, clouded by silt and blood. The stones where the goddess had fallen lay exposed, dark with the remnants of her essence. Her great helm—crafted of moonstone and froststeel—had come to rest beside the water’s edge, half-submerged, its beauty dulled. Her absence left a hollow in the air, as if some celestial note had been plucked from the world’s harmony and would not return.

Near the crumbled gatehouse, horses stood untethered, their coats streaked with sweat and grime. Some bore wounds that would not heal; others simply stared, heads lowered, as though they too understood what had been lost. A riderless saddle hung askew upon one of them—its leather singed, its crest faded. The soldier who once rode there would not return.

Within the courtyard of the fallen castle, the mosaic stones that once shimmered with the sun's light now lay cracked and muddied. The statues of the old kings had toppled during the assault, their faces shattered, their names erased. The great tree in the centre—planted a hundred years past to honour the first unification of the realms—stood scorched but alive. Its limbs were twisted, its leaves torn, but its roots held fast in the ground. Beneath it, candles had been placed, flickering feebly in the damp air, small offerings left by those still able to feel hope.

There were no songs sung that morning, nor cries of victory. The living walked with bowed heads and heavy tread, their breath rising in misty puffs as though reluctant to remain. A stillness had taken root, not of peace, but of reckoning. The cost had been immense. The victory was not untouched by sorrow.

And yet, amidst the ruin, there was something else—something faint, not yet shaped into words. Perhaps it was the slow return of the wind through the trees, or the subtle lift of mist from the earth. Perhaps it was the resilience of the tree, or the quiet companionship of survivors as they moved amongst the dead. Whatever it was, it stirred quietly beneath the silence, a breath beneath the grief.

The land was broken but not lost.

The remaining Saxons, dwarves, and elves upon their return were welcomed as heroes and honoured with mead said to be brewed by the goddess herself. Oswin was granted land in the East to cultivate and rule. He was welcomed among the supreme nobility and richly rewarded by the Saxon kings.

A new Saxon village was built upon the ashes of one destroyed by the Werg—a choice Oswin made. He did not wish for the destruction and suffering to be forgotten. There, he established a vast dominion over the proud Saxon valleys.

Before departing, he delivered these stirring words:

“Ye noble and doughty Saxons, I stand before ye not as a mere hero, but as a man who has returned to his brethren and kindred with honour. In sooth, I have slain the Werg.
To accept rewards for this deed alone would be unwise—for it was the brave Saxons, dwarves, and elves who fought beside me to the end who are the true heroes.
They have earned my respect and deserve reverence as warriors. Our battles were fierce, our trials grave. No single man can claim the glory, for that glory was forged by many.
Thus, I stand united with these warriors, whom I call my brothers. Let us not forget those men of valour who perished.
Let not their names fade into shadow, nor the names of Thunor and Ingrei Frea, who aided us in our hour of need.
Though these warriors lie buried in a distant land, they died with honour. We shall remember them and raise our cups to their names.
I shall end with these words: Long live the pride of the Saxons. Long live the kingdoms of the Saxons'.

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